Reunion
by theyleaveanote
Summary: John opens the door to Sherlock standing there, three years later. Rated M for naughty reasons. Johnlock.


NSFW, top!John, oral sex. Enjoy!

"I'm bleeding," Sherlock comments distractedly. "I assume the bandages are still in the medicine cabinet? I'll fetch one, don't worry."

"_Of course you're bloody bleeding, I bloody decked you in the face!"_

I cannot think.

I need to wake up.

There is no chance I am not asleep.

"Right then," he mutters, and lopes away to the bathroom, his long coat swooping behind him. The ends of it catch the dust I haven't tended to in three years, swirling it around his legs and making him look like a ghost.

He returns patting the bandage to his jaw, which looks even more chiseled than I remember it.

_No. This isn't real. I'm imagining that jaw. I'm imagining seeing him here._

"So, John" – and I don't hear the rest.

My name on his voice fills my ears, my head, my chest, my whole body with a warmth I had forgotten existed. Three years and I had stopped feeling the emptiness, the echoing nothing that resonated, steadily layered with cobwebs and tired, aching denial. I had stopped feeling it, I had grown numb, and at the sound of my name on his tongue the emptiness throughout my body woke violently into agonizing pins and needles and I am burning, bursting with the heat of it.

– I am lying in bed.

I do not remember getting into bed.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock is bustling about the bedroom, opening my bottom drawer and pulling out the pants I usually sleep in, fiddling with the curtains, flipping the light switch – the last of which is giving me a bit of a headache.

I want to believe it. But so many dreams over the past years, so many dreams that felt so real, I can't, I _can't_.

"If you'd stop messing with the lights, maybe I would," I manage.

"I am trying" – he clicks on the lamp on the bedside table and turns off the main lights, basking the bedroom in a faint golden glow – "to make this room stop looking so very harsh." He looks pointedly at me. "Atmosphere is very important when you're feeling ill, John." I feel myself swaying at the sound of my name again, but I hold on this time.

"What _happened_?" I can't have bloody _passed out_, not just from seeing the man I've mourned every hour for three years and hearing him say my name as if it were nothing.

…perhaps it's not quite that preposterous. Yet I never once passed out during the war, during the amputations and the head wounds and the stomach pouring out through the stomach, but this? What does _that_ mean?

"You became quite weak, John." I cannot figure out why he keeps saying my name? Did he used to say it this often? "Your eyes dulled, your body sort of…melted, a bit. You didn't seem to lose consciousness, but you seemed rather distraught." Sherlock is folding my sweaters now.

…Sherlock is _folding_ my _sweaters_.

I hear the sound of my fist hitting the bedside table before I feel it. Sherlock jumps slightly. Good.

"Three years, and you are _folding _my _sweaters_! Sherlock – " my stomach turns over at the sound of his name on _my_ voice, the first time I've said it out loud in a long while – "_I saw you die_. I saw you _die_ and now you're back and you've been alive this whole time and you _didn't tell me_ and – are you bloody_ smiling_?"

The corner of his mouth has curled into his familiar smile and it's real. Never have I dreamt of that smile. I couldn't. I wouldn't let myself. I know now.

"Sherlock." I am suddenly aware of how heavy I'm breathing. I am suddenly aware that he is breathing, his chest heaving gently through his shirt, and that simple fact daunts me. "Sherlock, I mourned you. How could you put me through that? And why are you _smiling_?" My voice rises with the last words, outraged and infuriated, but at the same time, that smile, that smile is how I know that this is real.

"The details are unimportant, John, I can explain them later. You seem to be in need of bed. And " – the smile widens – "well." He isn't looking at me. His eyes rove the ceiling, his hands fidgeting on his lap. In his silence I take him in fully for the first real time. When I opened the door, I had punched him before it registered, but now, as he searches for words, I drink in his appearance, his wholeness, the simple fact of him, alive. Has his back always been that long? Has his neck always been so smooth, his fingers so slender, his jawline so pronounced? Have his lips always been so curved and delicate? Has his hair grown or have I never noticed the way it falls nearly to his docile shoulders in some places, soft and unkempt?

"Well," he continues at last, breaking the silence, "I'm smiling – despite this damn cut chin of mine, thank you very much – because – " and he's not, suddenly, a shadow crosses his face, his brow furrowing – because I rather worried you'd moved on."

"I don't understand."

The smile is back, broader than ever. Have his teeth always been so even?

"My homeless network was keeping tabs on you, of course, and well, I began to think before we finally outsmarted Moriarty, you would have forgotten all about me." His eyes dart to mine now. Only briefly, but I can see, I can tell the idiot actually thought that was a possibility.

"Sherlock, you're a moron."

His bright eyes light up with genuine mirth and he laughs, the sound of it filling me up again, and I hear myself laughing too – no, I feel myself laughing. It sounds awkward and clunky at first, as I'm so out of practice, but I'm so overwhelmed that it begins to just spill out of me, louder and happier, until I tasted salt and I realized there were tears slipping down my cheek through the laughter.

Sherlock noticed a moment before I did, and stopped laughing abruptly. His hand shoots up to my cheek and brushes away the tears. I'm leaning into his palm before I know what I'm doing, fighting to catch my breath, the gentle warmth of his fingers pulling me in, sending jolts of sensation down my spine.

My face is somehow inches from his. I can see the specks of bronze gold in his eyes, every faded crinkle in his skin. I watch his lips twitch and part ever so slightly, and I feel my mouth own opening, words on the tip of my tongue…

"You bastard."

The only sign of surprise he shows is a raised eyebrow. He composes himself quickly.

"Yes, well, I expected this, I suppose. I understand that letting you think I was dead for three years – "

"_No,_ no, not that, oh, we will get to that, I swear to you!" I shake my head in disbelief. "Sherlock, how could you ever think I could move on?"

"Ah. That." He sighs. "Well, I suppose, after a certain amount of time, you would begin to believe the lies. You'd demonize me in your mind, to make it easier, and go off and find someone else to befriend, leaving your corrupt perception of me as a tidy memory."

"It is taking all of my energy to not hit you again." I am not exaggerating. "Sherlock" – am I saying his name more than usual? I'm beginning to love it on my tongue – "I went to your grave every day. Every day. Every moment that passed, every moment that I knew there were people out there who _did _believe those bloody lies, was torment." He knows I do not use that comparison lightly. I know torment. "To have you gone, without you ever knowing – without everyone ever knowing the truth about you, that is, it…haunted me." He is brushing a knuckle against my cheek again.

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but pauses. He looks at me. He looks at me closer.

"What?" I snap.

He takes a long, peering look deep into my eyes. My stomach turns over and I feel weak again. His lips are parted ever so slightly, and at this brief distance, I can see their light wetness.

"You love me," he states, matter-of-factly.

I freeze.

I open my mouth.

I close my mouth.

"Wh-what?"

"You love me." He smiles again and I'm shaking, I'm melting, I can't stand feeling this weak except it doesn't feel weak, not really, it's just so strong I can't stand it. I'm not used to feeling strong anymore. "I hoped you would."

"Sh-Sherlock – " for God's sake, I am _strong_! What am I doing? "Yeah, well, you love_ me_!" It comes out childish and petulant, but he only smiles more broadly. My head is spinning and I am so incredibly exhausted yet exhilarated at the same time.

I don't expect him to respond, I expect to have to pull it from him, but I suppose he's just waited so long that it spills out.

"Yes."

If I thought I was flooded with warmth before –

Wait.

"Say it."

"What's that?"

"Say it, Sherlock."

"You love me?"

"No. Don't ask." I press my palm against his chest, relishing the quickness of his heartbeat. I gaze steadily into his eyes. "Tell me."

He hesitates, almost uncomfortably, and it registers somewhere that he's likely never done anything like this before, and perhaps I should be gentle with him, and after all, the past three years was nearly entirely to save me – but I don't care. I need to hear it. Besides, I've never done anything like this before either, not like this. Not this real.

His lips part.

"John…I love you."

I lean forward uncontrollably, but force myself to pause an inch from his mouth – he reads me in an instant, and does exactly what I want, what I was asking for, silently, in the language only he understands.

He grabs my shoulders and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me, and his mouth is on mine and I'm kissing him furiously, desperately, hungrily. I bite at his lip and shove my hands under his coat and tug his warm body towards me, on top of me. His tongue slips eagerly into my mouth and it tastes just like he smells, just like his bedroom smelled for months until I couldn't take it and stopped going in – sweet and musky, the smell I've tried to forget. Now I devour it, sucking at his tongue, caressing it with mine as my hands discard his coat and stroke his lower back. Tight and smooth and hot, and as I make my hands down I finally grab his ass, squeezing the flesh in my fingers. All taut muscle, that clenches as he grinds his hips into mine.

I smile into his mouth, taking the chance to bite at his lip again.

"You're hard," I pant out, as he moves his mouth to my throat. He traces his tongue down the line of my neck, sucking gently at the curve where it meets my shoulder, and I can feel my own neglected manhood stiffening even further. "I wasn't quite sure you were capable ofbeing hard."

He pulls my shirt off and runs his fingers over my chest, my stomach. "Well, I took great pains to ensure you never realized it. Long coats do hide what you do to me." With those words, he moves back to run his glance over my body, pressing that ass into my lap, and he grins again. "You're one to talk."

I can feel myself flushing red, damn it.

"Shut up," I growl, and press my lips onto his again. He kisses me back enthusiastically, Christ, his lips are soft. In his kisses I can tell, again, that this seems new to him, that he's running simply on feeling rather than experience, and I deduct that this is one experiment he has yet to conduct.

I wrap my arms around him, pulling his body close, ripping his shirt open. I vaguely register a protest about _buttons!_, to which I respond by grinding my hips down on his erection, effectively shifting his protests to faint moans.

I roll over onto him. I grab his wrists and pin them next to his head. Without intending to, I pause, caught in his gaze.

Sherlock, chest exposed, hair disheveled, neck pink and lips flushed from my kisses, mouth open and panting, and, most distractingly, eyes half-open and glazed with lust, with intense passion I've never seen in him, perhaps simply because he's so good at masking it. Now, it encompasses him, and I begin to think I'm not the only one so filled with this warmth.

I dig my fingers into the waistband of his trousers, hesitating only a moment to watch his breath catch in anticipation before I pull them down, exposed his long, swollen cock.

I had wanted to hurt him, I had wanted to show him how he hurt me, I had wanted to make him beg. All the times I thought about having him, about him sprawled, completely naked and vulnerable, I wanted to take advantage of him, to make him ache with need, to deny it.

Yet now, staring into his desperate eyes, so honest and overflowing with compassion and desire, all I can feel is love.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" It's absurd, talking to him just like we used to, when I can see his full hard cock, stretching beautifully nearly up to his bellybutton. The swollen head rests on his lightly-haired stomach, a drop of precum glistening on his skin.

…This distracts me, and I bow my head without thinking, flicking out my tongue to lick it up. It tastes salty and full, and with the smell of Sherlock's skin everywhere it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.

His body arches into my tongue and he moans crossly, his fingers flexing as he tries to refrain from reaching for his own erection.

"_What_, John?"

"Oh. Right." I'm kissing the inside of his thighs now, loving every damn inch of him, vowing to learn every damn inch of him, to know what feels good and what feels better, what tickles and what hurts, what –

"_John!_" He grabs my hands, digging his nails into my palms. My own cock is throbbing, harder than I can ever remember it.

"Right. I was just wondering – have you ever done this before?"

No answer.

I smile. I'm at his hips now, pointedly avoiding his desperate shaft, though I do lay a tantalizingly gentle kiss on the velvety balls below them.

"It's okay."

"I know it's okay."

He's so damn adorable I want to just force my cock into him now, but I want this more.

"I assume you have, then?" he manages to pant out. "I know you've been with girls, but honestly, I never really wanted to inquire about this."

"Never with a man," I say honestly. "But I've thought about _this_ for a long time." I push myself up on the bed to kiss him deeply on the mouth again, running my fingers through his hair. I want to ravage him, yes, and I will, but right now I am so overwhelmed at having him back and at _having him_, that I don't want it to end. I want to know and to experience every moment.

I stare seriously into his eyes, brushing my lips against his taut cheek. "Sherlock, you tell me, at any point, if you want me to stop, all right? It's okay." I fight the urge to kiss the tip of his nose – I feel like he'd find it rather silly. I'll wait until after. "If anything is making you uncomfortable…"

"I'm not a _child_, John," he snaps, "but, yes, of course. I would stop you," he continues, reluctantly. "Now…_please_."

The sight of Sherlock begging is too much for me. With one last firm kiss on his mouth, I slide my head between his legs, spreading his thighs. I take his desperate cock in my mouth and force it deep into my throat. He is _huge, _and I choke slightly as I bury my face in his lap again and again, but the sound of his moans encourages me. I try to think of how I like my own cock sucked – how long ago _that _was – and I hum gently, swallowing with him in my mouth to open my throat, to take him in deeper, curling my lips under my teeth and tightening around him.

"_John…_" and the sound of it is all the motivation I need. I spread his thighs wider, cupping his balls in my palm, running my fingers over them as I suck firmly on his cock.

The motion and his voice and the taste of him are building to be nearly too much for my own neglected manhood, but I've been looking forward to the step I've known I want to take right before fucking him, and I want to savor it.

I pull my mouth away from his cock and glance up at him briefly, long enough to see his questioning eyes fixated on me. I flash him a smile before placing his own hand on his cock, scooping my hands under his ass, and pulling it towards my mouth. His

tight asshole clenches and unclenches, very nearly demanding my tongue to moisten it so I can slip my erection in.

His legs tighten involuntarily around me, and without looking up, I know he's blushing again. I kiss the inside of his leg.

"John, I – you don't have to – "

"Oh, hush."

"But – "

I let him catch a glimpse of my tongue poking out deviously between my lips before I lick at his asshole, and the resulting moan is more than worth it.

He tastes like clean skin and sweat and Sherlock, and it's delicious, much better than I had ever dreamed. His hands are furiously tugging at his cock (I take mental notes on the way he holds it, to imitate later), his body is bucking under my tongue – _"Ahh! God – oh god – yes – John!"_ – and I swirl around the puckered entrance only a few more times before I obediently slip it in. At this moment he is silent, his body arched in pleasure, his hands forgetting to masturbate, as I happily lick inside his tightness, fucking him with tongue as my wet lips press against the entrance.

The next instant, he is pulling at his cock madly again, and I can feel him relaxing around my tongue, eager and more comfortable now.

I pull back, wiping my mouth, and at last position my cock between his legs.

"John – that felt – "

But I'm impatient now, I've waited so long, I can barely hold on any longer.

"Yes, and I will do it again later, for hours if you'd like – but right now" – my fingernails are digging into his ribs – "may I fuck you?"

He manages a nod, and with impossible control, I ease myself into him as gently as I can.

It feels _incredible_, better than anything I've felt before, tight and hot and wet from my tongue and pulsing, throbbing, pulling me in – but Sherlock's eyes widen and then clench shut, and with enormous self-control, I don't move.

"It hurts? D-do you want me to stop?" _God_, even without moving I could almost cum right now, with my cock buried in Sherlock's beautiful ass.

"No!" His eyes bolt open, and I can see how present he is, how this is so much more momentous for him than it is to me, simply because _feeling_ is so new, though it's no less powerful for me. "Just – gently."

I grin, kissing his knee (which I've propped up by his head).

"Of course."

And I fuck him, _finally_, thrusting my cock deep into his body. I felt the cheeks of his ass press against my thighs with every move, watched the way every thrust made every part of him tremble. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close to me pushing my erection even deeper into him, shifting my angle gently until –

"Oh – oh my G – !"

Sherlock's eyes shoot open and starts rocking back on me, clenching his fists into the bedsheets and riding back onto my cock, and I know I've found it.

"_John_ – I – I – "

"Does that feel good?" I ask innocently. Before he can attempt to reply, I slip my hand between our bodies, taking care not to change our position. I wrap my fingers around his cock and jerk him in time to my thrusts. I want to kiss the beautiful curve of his neck, but I want to make him cum even more and that would mean letting go of his cock, so I keep my grip steady.

"Yes – _fuck_ – "

Sherlock swearing, brow sweaty, thighs pushed back almost to his head with his cock throbbing in my hand while he pushed his tight delicious ass back onto my own – I can't – _I can't_

and I'm rocking into him harder now, faster now, jerking his erection desperately, pounding that spot inside of him recklessly, and I try to hold on but I feel him gasp and shudder and stiffen with his hand clenched around my wrist and I feel his ass tighten around my cock and I open my eyes just in time to see the unfamiliar unbridled ecstasy on his face as he coats my hand in cum, and I'm releasing inside him, finally, _finally_, I'm filling Sherlock up and he bites his lip as I shove my cock in as far as it will go, ensuring that every ounce of my cum ends up deep inside his ass, which clenches tight around me one last time, until I am spent.

Our heavy breathing fills the air.

He makes a small noise as I pull out of him. I reach for the tissues on the bedside table and manage to clean him tenderly, his thighs and his lean stomach, until they're tidy again and not quite so sticky.

"How was it?" I ask nervously.

He wraps me in his arms and pulls me close. I lean my head on his chest and intertwine my legs with his, listening, listening to his heartbeat.

"It was…quite good," he says mildly. His lip curls into that infuriatingly gorgeous half-smile. He seems to remember something, flushing red again, clearing his throat. "Ah. And that – er. That thing you did. That was. Um. Good."

I laugh, snuggling closer.

"You're delicious." And then I realize I haven't even said it – just because it's so very obvious, perhaps. "Sherlock, I love you."

He smiles wider, and leans down to kiss me on the nose – a favor which I _promptly _return, which leaves him only slightly disgruntled at being so emasculated.

"I missed you," he says quietly. And before I can even respond, he reads my expression and answers: "I'll never leave you again."


End file.
